


matchstrike

by isawet



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May and the team try to re-establish normalcy, but there's loose ends to be tied up. And May can't ever seem to sleep with someone not knee deep in the same shit she is. </p><p>Melinda May/Bobbi Morse for Femslash February</p><p>Spoilers up until the current episodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. say goodnight and go

**Author's Note:**

> I still do not have a beta, I'll fix mistakes as I become aware of them--feel free to tell me I've made an error, or any other crit :)
> 
> Also, this is my first work for SHIELD and I've nervous about writing for them. Another note, I haven't yet watched all the episodes, so this may have been jossed already. Look at it as a sort of AU if it's more helpful that way.

Melinda was born on a salt farm. She went to school with ten other children, varied ages, at Our Lady of Sorrows, and she still speaks a little of that odd island Portuguese creole, mostly the childish insults they tossed her. Her mother took her shooting in the forests on the side of a mountain when she was around, generally every other weekend. Melinda remembers a tree two miles from their small house, thick trunk and sturdy roots. She climbed it when she was twelve, bare feet and callused palms, and sat among the leaves, feet dangling from a branch. Besides the birds and the hum of the bees, it was stiflingly quiet, and the sun played dappled shadows across her sunkissed skin. 

//

It was supposed to be a shakedown mission, a milkrun without alien portals and the fate of half their people on the line, a chance for Joey and Lincoln to gel with other agents and each other, a chance for Daisy to flex leadership muscles. All they had to do was infiltrate a private collector’s compound in Utah and retrieve a few Chitauri artifacts.

Daisy led the pre-mission briefing, excitement clear under forced calm. Joey melts the gates and the metal doors, Lincoln overloads the alarms. Coulson approves the plan, wishes them luck, and signs May as the Supervising Officer.

“Needs to be done,” he tells her in his office. “We need a reset--no, a settling. There’s been a lot of change. Something normal--it’ll be good.” He touches a picture on his desk, a new addition--Rosalind, smiling, a cellphone snap. “I’ll be seeing to--” his excuses melt away. “The cemetery,” he says simply. “I trust you to see this through?”

“Hm,” Melinda had said, because she’d still been faintly irritated he’d taken Morse and Hunter instead of her when he’d lit out after Ward.

//

Joey melts through the doors, grinning, still exhilarated over what he can do. Lincoln steps forward, cocky exuberance, shooting a look at Skye as he throws a handful of blue static at the exposed wires. The he spasms, recoiling, and falls to the ground, still twitching. Melinda represses a sigh. 

“That’s not good, right?” Joey asks. “Doesn’t seem good.”

“Not good,” Melinda agrees, and nudges Lincoln with a rubber soled boot. There’s a crackle of blue as he grounds, a jolt up her leg.

“Spark’s down,” Daisy reports through her comms. “Press on?”

“Negative,” Mack’s voice is calm through Melinda’s earpiece. “May, extract. Skye, Metal, push through and meet at the extraction point with the package.”

Melinda grunts, lifting Lincoln up into a fireman’s carry. “Copy.” She nods at Daisy’s worried glance. “I’ve got him.”

“Man,” Joey notes as they turn to jog through the open door, “I’ve got to get a better code name.” 

Melinda walks purposefully, grunting over Lincoln’s dead weight on her shoulders, and breaks into a slow jog as she rounds the corner and makes it into the treelines. “May to Mockingbird.”

The air in the clearing shimmers, and the extraction jet appears. The ramp lowers with a grinding of gears and machinery. “Mockingbird here. Everything go pear-shaped? Already?”

Melinda walks up and drops Lincoln on the metal grated floor. “As it does.”

Bobbi grins at her from the pilot’s chair. “Keep me company?”

Melinda shakes her head. “Keep the engines warm.” She heads back down the ramp, centering herself, and draws her sidearm. The engines thrum under her feet.

Bobbi hums in her ear. “I always do.”

//

Melinda walks through the facility, following melted metal and the limp, fallen bodies of the security personnel. Bullets ping the wall just beside her head, leaving her ears ringing with a high pitched whine and she moves automatically, crouching just around the corner. She listens: three pairs of boots. She leans out, keeping her body behind cover, and fires four times. Two thumps, and the harsh, panicked breathing of an ill-trained operative. She lets him blast through his clip, easing back in case the bullets are high enough in caliber to punch through the wall, then charges him while he fumbles to reload. She pistol whips him hard, banging his head around his clunky helmet, and breaks his leg while he’s dazed. She grabs his collar and slams his head into the wall. He collapses, senseless. 

Below her, the ground trembles. “Skye?”

Daisy replies, out of breath, “We’re in the basement. You have to get down here, we can’t just leave, there’s--oh my god.” Her comm crackles once and then goes out.

Melinda frowns. “Skye?” The ground rolls violently, bucking, and Melinda falls against the wall. Abruptly, the movement subsides, the floor jagged up in rough ridges around her. “Mockingbird?”

“I’m here. Metal and Skye are non-responsive. Should we call for reinforcements?”

Melinda considers for a moment. “Not yet. Stand by. Anything gets near you, rabbit.”

“Roger.” A low groan comes over the comms, and Bobbi sounds faintly amused. “Sparkplug’s coming around. He fry himself?”

Melinda finds a stairwell and clears it with her gun before descending. “Unknown. Needs to have medical check him.”

“I’ll tag him for Simmons. Mockingbird out.”

Melinda goes down, two flights, and listens at each door. They’re locked, and show no signs of tampering, but the final door, set into solid cement blocking, is melted half away. Melinda climbs through, crouching. It’s one big room, lit by cylinders of fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling. In long rows are glass cases and in each glass case, a wax figure. The room appears to be deserted, and Melinda edges down a row, keeping herself tucked against the wall. She pauses to look at one of the placards attached to the cases. _Male, 34, Plastic Touch_. She looks at the case. It is a man, who looks in his early to mid thirties, and his hand is outstretched, holding a plastic gun by the barrel. His face is frozen, twisted into a mask of fear and pain. Melinda feels a chill down her spine.

“Mockingbird, scan infrared. We need to leave.” Whatever they had thought this mission would be and whatever they had prepared, Melinda knows this isn’t it. They’d held off on keeping the scanners on, worried about pinging alarms. In her gut, a warning swells. She needs to get her people and get out. 

Bobbi must catch something in her voice, because when she responds her tone is tense to match. “Something’s blocking our scanners.” The scanners were working before they went in, and the warning murmur in Melinda’s gut becomes an air raid siren. “Get back here. We’ll regroup and run a retrieval mission.”

“No,” Melinda says easily. “Go.” She lets her gun dip to pull her phone and send a few quick snaps of the room, close ups of the case and the placards, and runs the little scanning app FitzSimmons had downloaded on their mission hardware. “It’s an order,” she adds, sending the data to the jet. “Standard Charlie Foxtrot in effect.” The standard charlie foxtrot is to go to ground, hide in the woods until they can be extracted safely. 

“Do it,” Mack orders.

“Stay safe,” Bobbi says, and clicks off.

Melinda continues through the aisle, bringing her gun back up. At the end of the row there’s another guard slumped over, and she picks up his weapon, sliding the magazine out and checking the bullets--rubber. Shit, she thinks. There’s a single door at the end, and she tests it lightly. It swings open.

“Hello,” a man says, in a blue suit, nice tie. At his feet Skye and Joey are prone, eyes glassy. They’re still breathing, and Melinda brings her gun up even as security personnel melt out of the shadows, rifles at the ready. “Let’s not let this get ugly,” the man continues. Melinda centers herself again, and lets her pistol swing from a single finger. She puts her hands up. “Excellent choice,” Blue Suit says. “Now--” The men closed on Melinda, on either side, and just as they get within striking range, she moves. Ducking under the barrel of the one on the left, she punches him twice in the kidneys, moving him in front of her as a shield. Four bullets hit him in the back--rubber, good. They clearly want her alive. She throws him at a guard and punches another in the throat. He drops, and she lunges for Blue Suit. His arm comes up, something metal and sparking in it, and it’s too late to course correct. She braces herself and powers through the first spasm of pain, catching him in a good hard knock to the temple. Then, nothing.

//

“May? May, wake up.”

Melinda blinks, muscles protesting. She’s lying in Skye’s lap, and her mouth tastes like cotton and copper--she’s bitten her tongue. Not bad, but enough to sting and bleed. She blinks again, the world coming into focus. She sits up, Skye’s hands on her back. “Sit rep?”

“We’re in a holding cell, but they’re keeping us together. Sanders owns the place, I think, but we took out his head cronie. Scar across one eye. Where’s Bobb--Mockingbird?”

“Charlie foxtrot,” Melinda answers. “Metal?”

“Here,” Joey answers from just out of view. Melinda swings her head around, suppressing a wince. Joey waves. He looks pale, but whole. “I really need a better codename.”

“I agree,” says a genial disembodied voice. Daisy points to a speakerbox on the the wall.

“Sanders,” her tone is thinly veiled disgust. “He says he’s a…. collector.”

“With three fine additions,” Sanders reports cheerfully. “Metal, was it? And Skye, the earthquake girl. Names are important for display purposes.”

Melinda shakes her head a little. “The bodies in the glass cases--”

“Inhumans,” Daisy confirms. “now that he has three new inhumans, he wants to stuff us and put us in that room.” She’s careful not to place emphasis on any of her words, but Melinda gets the message. If Sanders finds out Melinda’s a mundane, she’s no longer worth keeping around. “he’s obsessed with Incident artifacts.” Another hidden meaning. If he was in the know, she would have said Asgardian, or Chitauri. They’re dealing with a civilian mundane. Melinda nods at Daisy.

“And now you’re awake,” Sanders continues, “we can begin. A demonstration, if you please.”

“No,” Joey says strongly, and then as an aside. “No, right? We say no to bad guys?”

Daisy opens her mouth and Melinda grabs her wrist. She shakes her head very slightly--if Sanders has ears in the room he’s probably got eyes in the room. Daisy frowns at her, but then digs in a pocket and produces a quarter, which she tosses to Joey. Melinda scans their cell. Small, solid walls, not even a bucket adorning the cement floor. The door, disappointingly, appears to be made of plastic and opaque glass.

“Really?” Joey asks, and Melinda gives him a look. “Okay.” He flexes his fingers and the quarter moves in his hand, going liquid and then solid, a tiny silver fist making a universal gesture. Melinda privately approves. Daisy grins.

“Excellent,” Sanders’ voice says, delighted. “Now--Skye, what an interesting name. We had a demonstration earlier, but it’s important to see a few so we know the best pose.”

Daisy looks like she’s going to refuse. Melinda tightens her grip on Daisy’s wrist. Skye wiggles her fingers, and the ground rumbles, just a smidge. She’s downplaying herself, and Melinda again, approves. “Amazing,” Sanders breathes, and Melinda hates the rawness of his voice, like he’d like to put Daisy and Joey on a table and cut them open to see how they tick. “May, your turn.”

Daisy looks at her, panic simmering under her calm facade, and Joey is practically broadcasting. “No,” Melinda says firmly. “Show and tell is over.”

Faux politeness drops from Sanders’ tone. “I don’t like being refused, Ms. May.” The door swings open, and three guards stand in the doorway. Melinda stands, shaking the last ache out of her bones. “Ahh--if she gives you trouble, shoot the others. And their phasers aren’t set to stun.”

Melinda releases Daisy’s wrist and gives them a quelling look. “I’ll be fine.”

//

They march Melinda to another square cement room, and she sits in the single steel chair. Three cover her, two zip tie her hands and feet to the chair. One had stayed behind to watch Daisy and Joey, but Melinda is confident they can handle themselves. That makes six, she doubles the count to twelve, plus Sanders, at the very least. Thirteen.

Sanders steps in the room, cautious. Melinda would rather he be overly confident, but she’ll take what she can get. “May, right? So different from Skye and Metal, although ‘Skye’ doesn’t seem to be tied to her ability.”

One of the guards leans over and yanks the small comm out of Melinda’s left ear. He drops it on the ground and smashes it under his heel. Sanders smiles at her, mean, and Melinda smiles back, because he’d missed the smaller comm, hidden just inside her ear canal where Simmons put it with magnifying glass goggles and fine tweezers. “I have no ability,” Melinda says honestly. And just like she’d suspected, he immediately discounts the first thing she says as a lie.

“Come now,” he cajoles, falsely sweet, “I don’t want to hurt your two young friends.”

Sanders looks to be middle aged, like he was once balding but sprang for high quality hair plugs, likes expensive suits but doesn’t tailor them, wears a lower end watch but high quality cufflinks. Melinda pegs him as a self made fortune, funneling his money into hobbies and passions and childhood dreams instead of clothes and watches. His eyes have that glinty look. Anyone that can preserve the people he’s killed like they’re butterflies on pinboards isn’t one to underestimate. “Then don’t,” Melinda says simply.

“This isn’t how I like it,” Sanders tells her, stepping back. “usually I have to do very little to get people to demonstrate their powers, and I’m very humane in how I transition my specimens.” His empathy is false, and Melinda waits it out. The two guards bring in a towel, and a bucket. Another drags a hose in. Good, Melinda thinks, they’ll have to leave the door open to keep the hose going. “I admit,” Sanders is continuing, “that I have been eager to see a few techniques in action, even if they are tired and… trite.”

Melinda takes a deep breath and thinks about the feel of the bark under her fingers and toes as she climbs the tree, the smell of the fruit and she wove through the branches, reaching for the sun.

//

The waterboarding doesn’t last long, and they pepper the experience with more normal blows. Sanders is good, she thinks, avoids organs and goes for pain instead of injury. But he’s inexperienced. When they drag her back to Daisy she’s dripping wet and gasping, but she’s only got cracked ribs, not broken, and the worst of the bruises will barely hit deep purple. Daisy grabs her, helping her sit against the wall, and hands her a bottle of water. 

“The seal was intact,” Daisy tells her. “I gave it a little--” she wiggles her fingers, “too, just in case.”

Melinda takes a drink and fights down instinctual panic of feeling water in her throat. “Would that help?”

Daisy sits next to her. “I... don’t actually know.” Melinda finishes a drink and hands Daisy the bottle back. Daisy takes a little sip. “They took Metal a little while after you.”

“We have time,” Melinda says calmly. “No bruises on the… bodies. In the cases.” That means he would wait, let them be unmarked before the taxidermy process.

“Rest,” Daisy says quietly, and Melinda tips her head back against the wall.

“I rested during,” she says absently, and Daisy snorts.

“You are such a badass,” she says, grinning. Melinda grins back. The door squeaks open and Joey stumbles through.

“I’m still complying,” Joey informs them, “should I stop complying? I’d like to stop complying.”

“Bring her,” Sanders says from the speakerbox. One of the guards reaches for Daisy and doesn’t pay attention to Melinda, sitting right there. Melinda breaks his hand and gets one hand on the trigger guard of his rifle--plastic, no wonder Joey hasn’t busted them all out already--before another hits her at the base of her spine. She drops like a stone, groaning, and he kicks her in her bad ribs. She lies prone, breathing through her nose. “Fine,” Sanders says, bored, “May again.”

“You just brought her back,” Daisy protests, and when Melinda looks at her she likes that there’s two guards limping to their feet, one with a dislocated elbow. “Hey! You just--” They drag Melinda out, clanking the door closed behind her.

The floor is still wet from the last time she was in this room. Sanders is already there. “You’re delightfully resistant,” he tells her. “must be that training.” Melinda revises her opinion of him. What an idiot, to recognize they’re a team with training and not question who they work for and who knows that they’re here. He holds something up and clicks a button. A tiny flame jumps to life at the end of a compact metal barrel. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t scar.”

//

Thirty minutes in and the tiny comm in Melinda’s ear goes live with a soft click. Melinda makes a choked, pained noise to establish proof of life.

“I’m here,” Bobbi says, just for her. “We’ve got scans and comms back. And we looked at your data.”

“Sick bastard,” Mack confirms. 

“I wonder how long they’ll question May this time,” Daisy says to Joey for the other’s benefit, so they know where she is.

Joey catches on immediately. “As long as she refuses to reveal her inhuman ability, they’ll keep her apart from us. Approximately two rooms apart, if each room were six by six feet.”

“And accounting for two feet of insulation,” Daisy agrees. Melinda’s lips quirk in a smile.

“We see her,” Bobbi confirms.

“Long term exposure appears to numb pain receptors,” Sanders notes. “More variation. Try the fingertips. I’ve heard there’s more nerve endings there and I’m curious to see if it’s true.”

Melinda hisses. “We’re coming,” Bobbi promises her, “two hours.”

“Two hours is easy,” Hunter says easily, “like cake.”

“Easy,” Joey agrees, trying to be supportive. There’s a _thwack_ , like Daisy’d smacked him. He tries to recover: “is not this. This situation is not easy.”

“Two hours,” Mack says, “your team is coming.”

//

One hour later and Melinda wishes they hadn’t set the comms to be live all the time. She understands the practicality of it, but it’s probably hard on Daisy and Joey, to hear the noises she can’t help make. It’s getting harder to hold her place in her head, the leaves turning to little flames, the smell of burned skin and hair instead of the ocean breeze. 

“Setting comms to channel three,” Bobbi says in her ear, and there’s a series of clicks. “It’s just you and me here now,” she says softly. “Did I ever tell you about the time Lance had to go undercover as a pool boy in Los Angeles?” 

//

“Thirty minutes,” Bobbi says.

They’ve passed through another round of waterboarding, Melinda drowning on dry land while Bobbi tells her an odd story about Barton, bears, and potato vodka. They’re back to the flame now, the soles of Melinda’s feet. She wheezes, fighting back a scream. “Did I--” she speaks for the first time, and is surprised at the rawness of her throat, the rough sound of her own voice. Sanders holds up a hand and the torch pulls away. 

“What’s that, May?” He thinks using her name is disarming, fake intimacy between them, but it’s mostly vaguely irritating. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Melinda tries again, “that I was born on a salt farm?”

“Base scuttlebut is that you sprang, fully formed and brandishing a nine millimeter, from Fury’s eyepatch.” Bobbi’s voice is wry.

“An island,” Melinda murmurs, uncontrollable spasms running up her legs. She cries out, strangled, when they start flicking the burned patches on her feet. One grins, satisfied at winning a soft noise out of her. The scarred eyed one Daisy had hit particularly hard.

“Tropical?” Bobbi doesn't address Melinda’s cries of pain.

“I climbed a tree,” Melinda continues, and reaches out to the calm place in her head. It falls away, and Sanders withdraws from where he’s administering another injection to the soft skin of her inner elbow. 

“Is this story going anywhere?” Sanders is starting to become irritated with her refusal, which Melinda can appreciate even as she recognizes the feeling of unknown narcotics. “While I hate to lose a possible piece, sometimes a collector has to let prizes go.”

“I climbed a tree,” Melinda repeats, and then seizes, shaking and gasping. Her stomach rolls.

“My place,” Bobbi tells her, “is in Florida. Which is hell-forsaken, incidentally. Hot, suffocatingly humid, bugs constantly biting. I was running from an alligator and I burst out onto this… dirt road, all cleared out in the middle of this swamp. And across the road there was a river.”

“River,” Melinda mumbles, pulling it up in her mind. 

“A little longer,” Sanders says to someone. “and then we’ll call it, take the L.”

“This cougar was drinking from the river,” Bobbi continues, steady and even, “and it turned and it looked at me. It was the first time I ever really thought I was going to die.” 

Melinda’s had been in college, when a man pulled her into an alley with a knife and she hadn’t had any money in her wallet. She hit him with a pipe and while he was down hit him three times more to make sure he wasn’t going to get back up. SHIELD had contacted her the next day. 

“But I didn’t panic, it was just like this, sudden calm. I thought ‘I’m going to die’ and I was okay with it. That’s where I go.”

The door abruptly ceases to be. “Wha--” Sanders is interrupted by rings of vibrating air that knock him off his feet, flying into the wall. The guards raise their guns, only to find them melted blocks of plastic, useless. Melinda raises one leg and channels the last of her energy into a kick that rattles one of their jaws. It hurts her probably as much as it hurts him, but it’s still worth it to see his teeth clack together.

Joey bursts through the wall as it falls to grains of sand around him. “There is no box that can hold me!” he shouts, wildly exuberant in his success. He swings a hand out, and glass, plastic, cement and metal go flat and puddleish. He laughs. Then he looks surprised and falls over. 

Daisy steps over him and sends the last few men smashing into the nearest remaining wall. “Overextension,” she notes. She places a finger on one of Melinda’s zipties and focuses. Melissa feels the strong plastic warm, and then fall apart. “Ha,” Daisy says, “resonance.” She repeats the maneuver on the other zip ties.

“Nice trick,” Melinda says, and needs Daisy’s help to sit up. She wraps an arm around Daisy’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Daisy says, starting to hobble them along. “We’re learning new things all the time.”

“Here’s as good as any,” Melinda says, looking at Joey. “we can’t Charlie Foxtrot like this.”

“Hold,” Bobbi says, “we’re almost there, and there’s only a few more guards.”

Daisy lowers Melinda to the ground. “Where? I’ll take them out.”

There’s a pause over the comms. “Be quick,” Mack decides, “and careful.”

Melinda leans as far away from Joey as she can and sticks her finger down her throat, vomiting. Psychosomatic or not, it makes her feel better, and she extends a hand to Daisy. “Knives, in their boots.” Daisy fishes out three and gives one to Melinda. 

“I’ll lead them in,” she promises, and leaves.

Melinda settles her back against the wall and grips the knife, blade tip pointed down, and centers herself. The island forms in her mind, and overlaid over the birds cooing and the church bells ringing there’s the screaming buzz of swamp cicadas, and a dirt road, stretching out to the sea.

//

When she wakes up Bobbi is squinting at her IV bag. She makes a note on a clipboard that must be Melinda’s chart. Melinda groans. “Good,” Bobbi says, starting to inflate the blood pressure cuff on Melinda’s left upper arm, “you’re awake.”

Melinda tries to lick her dry mouth away. “What’d I get hit with?”

“The eighteenth century,” Bobbi mutters. “you’ll recover. It was all… rudimentary.”

“Nothing scarring,” Melinda repeats, and tries a stretch. It pulls but doesn’t hurt. “painkillers?”

“So many painkillers,” Bobbi confirms.

“I don’t want to like swamps,” Melinda informs her. Bobbi grins.

“So many painkillers,” she repeats. “Plus whatever he gave you to try and make you compliant.” Melinda snorts. Her first report card had been a note written to her father saying she was very bright, especially in maths, but harbored deep non-compliance for school rules. Bobbi hands Melinda a dixie cup of ground up ice. “Don’t go eating that all at once. Daisy is on the way with broth and crackers.”

“Sanders? Joey?” Melinda blinks, her mind shuttering slowly. “Lincoln?

“Sanders is in containment, headed for a cell. FitzSimmons are at the compound, analyzing his… collection.” Bobbi’s voice twists with distaste. “Mack is overseeing, Coulson is on his way back for a debriefing. Joey is--” she points, and Melinda turns her head with effort. Joey is lying on the bed beside her. “Sleeping, not unconscious. His powers took a jump, and he’s recharging. His warcry is already popular. The boys have started calling him Box, they think it’s hilarious.”

“I’m not sure it’s better than Metal,” Melinda says. She tips half the ice into her mouth at once, blessed chill.

“Lincoln accidentally completed a circuit on himself,” Bobbi continues, pulling Melinda’s hand away by the wrist. “--pace yourself--He’s already out and back at the compound with Mack and FitzSimmons.”

“Estimated time of recovery?”

Bobbi narrows her eyes. “That was too coherent.” She picks up Melinda’s morphine button and clicks it a few times. “You’re in here for at least another day, we’ve got some dermal regenerators to work out. New cradle tech from Avenger contacts. Then light duty, training.” She refills Melinda’s dixie cup. “Or until the next huge crisis where we can’t afford you to be out of the field.”

Melinda feels the morphine hit, pleasantly numbing. “I’d rather be in my room.” She doesn’t like to to be altered in medical. Too open, too vulnerable. “Makes me itch,” she tells Bobbi.

Bobbi quirks a smile at her. “A salt farm, huh?”

“Mm,” Melinda says, closing her eyes, “I still speak a little Portuguese.”

Bobbi blinks at her. “I’ve heard you speak Portuguese.”

Melinda waves arm. “I still speak a little Portuguese from there. Back then.”

Bobbi’s smile goes rounder, warmer. “Go to sleep, Agent May.”

//

When she wakes again, Bobbi is still there. “Melinda.”

“Morse,” Melinda responds in kind, and Bobbi smiles. 

“The final test,” she teases, and hands Melinda a banana.

“Yay,” Melinda deadpans, peeling it swiftly. She throws the peel into the trashcan with a flick of her wrist, not looking.

“Showoff,” Bobbi notes, checking her vitals. “besides, you know what they say about bananas.”

“Excellent source of potassium?” Melinda sinks her teeth in, just on the side of ripe Melinda prefers, before they get soft and sweet.

“They taste the same going down--” Melinda’s stomach rebels and she retches into the wastebasket Bobbi swoops in and holds for her. Bobbis fingers trail through her hair, gathering it and keeping it out of the way. Her nails scrape across Melinda’s scalp, and she shivers. “--as they do coming up.” 

Bobbi pulls a lock of hair off the back of Melinda’s neck, and massages where the back of her head meets her neck with a thumb, absent minded as she does something to the IV. Melinda shivers again, her head tilting forward without her brain’s permission. Bobbi makes a surprised noise, and then cautiously runs a nail against the bone behind Melinda’s ear.

“Mm,” Melinda hums. Bobbi discreetly moves the morphine button out of reach.

“Another day at least,” she says, and hesitates, rolling her fingers into Melinda’s neck. Melinda sighs, her body going lax. Bobbi smiles. “Sleep well, Agent May.”

//

Two weeks later and they blow the compound to hell. They let Joey push the button. 

//

Coulson appears at Melinda’s elbow while she’s pouring hot water into a mug. “How is your recovery going?”

“I’m fine,” Melinda says, and finds a teabag of a blend that isn’t the terrible health shit Mack insists on buying or pretentious European garbage Hunter pretends he doesn’t drink. “How are the repairs going?” They’re in Canada in the smaller jet, and the cold has permeated the entire plane. Melinda wraps her hands around the mug and welcomes the flush of heat. 

“Well,” Coulson says. He holds out a mug and Melinda passes him the coffeepot. 

“I’m going to train with Daisy,” Melinda says simply, a passive way of edging him into saying what he came to her to say. 

“They found him,” Coulson says, obliging bluntness. Melinda goes still. “He’s been contained at home. Once we rendezvous, we’re headed to an Avenger base to discuss… options.” He adds creamer to his coffee and stirs. Melinda takes a measure sip of the tea even though it’s not steeped the way she likes. “Melinda--”

“I’m going to train with Daisy,” Melinda says, and leaves.

 

//

Melinda sits crossed legged on the training mat and tastes salt, smells the sea. She listens to the sounds of air moving through the leaves. Three feet to her left, Daisy blows out an exaggerated sigh. “Is this revenge? I once knocked the great Agent May out with my superhuman--” Melinda imagines Daisy is wiggling her fingers expressively, “--whatever, and now I spend my days trying to find my happy place.” Melinda takes in a breath, counting to seven, and then releases it to the same even count. “And it smells like sweat in here.” They are still in Canada. It’s cold as hell inside, even colder outside, and it does, in fact, smell like sweat.

Melinda stands in a fluid movement, without opening her eyes, and swings an open handed blow at where Daisy’s face is. To her credit, Daisy blocks the strike, yelping, and scrambles to retaliate, aiming a hard kick at Melinda’s knee. Melinda steps out of the way, bending forward, and grabs Daisy by the collar and the waist, twisting her high over and slamming her back on the mat. Then she opens her eyes.

Daisy glares. “I get it, you are the Zen Supreme.”

Melinda releases her grip but stays kneeling over her, looming. “Again. Like water.”

Daisy stays on her back, mulish. “Sweaty and suffocating?”

Melinda stands, pulling Daisy to a (mostly) upright position. “Fluid. Strong.”

Daisy blows out a sigh, ruffling the sweaty hair hanging in her face. “How can I go straight to adrenaline from meditation?”

Melinda resists giving in to irritation. “You’re missing the point.”

“Then tell me the point!” Daisy is flushed, and there are dark rings under her eyes. Melinda thinks she may have miscalculated in not allowing the respite Coulson recommended, but if Daisy is a full fledged field agent, then she’s a full fledged field agent, and falls under Melinda’s direct supervision. “What is the point of this, May? I’m good in the field, and I don’t mind a spar, but you’re treating me like a child.”

“You are acting like a child,” Melinda snaps, and moves like a striking viper, blurred and impossible to dodge. She slaps Daisy’s hands to the side, pointed at the far wall, and elbows Daisy in the sternum, enough to knock the wind out of her. While she gasps for air Melinda catches both hands, moving sideways to put herself out of the line of fire, and finds pressure points between the fine bones in Daisy’s hands. Daisy lets out a gasp, and then a pained whimper, her body tensing. “This is how I would take you down, except I would have struck you in the head instead of the chest. Do you know how well your powers work with broken hands and crushed fingers?”

“Strangely enough,” Daisy responds, voice high and tight, “I have not tested that.”

Melinda applies just a touch more pressure, and Daisy goes on her tiptoes, crying out softly. “Do you want to?”

“May.” Bobbi stands in the doorway, relaxed except for faint tension in her fingers. “Need a partner?”

Melinda releases Daisy and stands back. “Same time tomorrow?”

Daisy flexes her hands, and Melinda can see her considering flat refusal. “Yay,” she says instead, “can’t wait, Sensei.” Under her breath she mumbles _Sensei Crazypants_.

She leaves, and Bobbi steps out of her shoes, leaving her barefoot on the mats opposite Melinda. She snags training batons off a rack on the wall, wood and foam Eskrima sticks, the ends wrapped in black tape to keep them from cracking. “Patterns to start?”

She tosses two across the space between them and Melinda feels them thunk into her palms, the grooves of the grips familiar and steadying. “Why? You need a warmup?”

Bobbi shrugs a shoulder. “Have it your way.”

//

Later, a fresh bruise blooming high on her cheekbone, Melinda accepts the bottle of water Bobbi offers and drains it in long, gulping swallows. Even at room temperature, she’s always found water to be the best thing for the adrenaline hit of a fight, although she doesn't crave it as bad after training bouts as she does the real thing.

Coulson had poured three bottles down her throat in the backseat of a SUV after Bahrain, and every drop tasted like ash on her tongue.

Melinda shrugs the ticklings of the memory off like a chill. “Thanks.”

Bobbi sits next to her against the wall, wincing. Melinda wonders briefly if her knee is bothering her more than she has been letting on, and resolves to discreetly mention it to Simmons. “Care to share?”

Melinda May has never cared to share in her entire life, and she lets it show on her face.

Bobbi snorts. “Fine. But you beat down a junior agent just now. Is what you just did really going to help Daisy in hand to hand?”

“She needs to be ready. We all need to be ready.” SHIELD falling down around their heads, Hydra looming, too many assets and agents dead at her hands already.

“Yes,” Bobbi agrees, “but. Pain and fear? Is that how you want her to learn?”

Melinda takes another drink. “It’s how I learned.”

“How _we_ learned,” Bobbi corrects. “And my question still stands. First rule of being a supervisor, May.” 

First rule of training others, of mentoring. _Don’t make it about yourself_. Melinda feels a flush of recrimination. “Hm.” Is all she allows herself to acknowledge, but Bobbi smirks. She allows herself to throw an elbow at Bobbi’s ribs, faintly teasing, and lets herself stay there, close enough to feel the heat from the other woman’s body.

Bobbi hesitates, then plows forward. “So. Andrew has asked for you---May!”

Melinda is already halfway through the door. “Tell Coulson to do his own dirty work.”

//

Freshly showered and put together, Melinda grabs two oranges from the mess and tucks one in a pocket. She peels the other while she searches for Daisy. Three quarters of the way through, she finds her in FitzSimmons’ lab, doing a passable, if overly exaggerated, imitation.

“I’m Melinda May, and I eat only dewdrops from the highest of mountain flowers, while vivisecting a man with the strength of my glower power.”

“Oh come on Daisy,” Simmons says absently, “weren’t you excited about training with her?” It’s a beat off what it should be, and Fitz doesn’t chime in, his eyes fixed to his screen. Simmons turns to put an instrument away and can’t find the proper place for it. When the clock ticks over to the next minute she jumps, blanching. Fitz jerks, the automatic reaction to go to her being forcibly suppressed.

Christ, Melinda thinks, a sorry state of their team indeed.

Daisy, fiddling with something on a table, doesn’t notice the interplay. “Yeah but I thought it would be, you know, cool montage stuff. I guess I should have known better than to think time with the Cavalry would be any fun at all.”

The use of the nickname stings more than Melinda would care to admit. Her own fault, to lurk and listen. “If you want fun, join the circus.”

Simmons starts properly this time, a tray of instruments clattering to the floor. Her hand claps over her mouth, distraught. “It’s all right,” Fitz assures her, kneeling to gather them up. 

“I’ve ruined them,” Simmons says, eyes filling with tears. “this never would have happened before--”

“They just need to be resterilized,” Fitz says briskly, but when he looks at her on the verge of tears he visibly softens. “It’ll take but a minute. Don’t fret so, Jemma.”

Excellent, Melinda grumbles in the safety of her own mind, all she needs now is to remind Hunter his ex-wife didn’t fully mean the deathbed confession of love, and she’ll have stomped on the majority of her own team. “Daisy. A moment?”

 

Outside the lab she turns to Daisy, offering her the other orange. Daisy takes it before fully realizing what it is. “May, I--what’s this?”

“Fruit.”

Daisy glares halfheartedly. “Yeah I know it’s a fruit. Why’re you giving it to me?”

Melinda shifts on her feet. “It is an apology.”

Daisy’s eyebrows meet her hairline. “You. You’re apologizing.”

“You are not required to accept it.”

Daisy recoils like Melinda’s about to snatch the orange out of her hands. “No! It’s mine. No takebacks.”

“Your control over your powers is impressive,” May says, “but I don’t want to rely on them. Just like you should practice using them, you should practice being without them.”

“I know,” Daisy says. “I know.”

“Good.” Melinda is pleased about the whole way this has worked out. She turns to leave.

“Wait!” Daisy pulls her back. “What you heard in there--”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I know you don’t like the nickname. I was venting, and I’m sorry.”

Melinda shrugs. “Plenty of people use the name. It doesn’t bother me.” It does, but if Melinda is confident about anything, it’s her pokerface.

“It does. It’s cruel, and I’m sorry.” Daisy looks it too, sincerity in every syllable.

“You don’t know why I don’t like it,” Melinda allows, “and I accept your apology.” This whole morning has altogether been too many emotions, and Melinda turns to leave before Daisy can come up with anything else to say. She pauses. “You’re good in the field, good with assets, and have good command instincts. I enjoy sparring with you as an opponent.”

“Wow,” Daisy says, “did it hurt to put that many words together in a row?” She grins.

Melinda allows a smile, feels a grounding flush of camaraderie. Still, it’s quite enough emotions for her taste, and she leaves.

//

She retreats to Coulson’s office, sliding into a chair and casting him faintly accusing looks. He has the gall to be amused. “A day when you’re upset I dragged you into all this?”

“Drive the bus,” Melinda parrots at him. “No field ops.”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed yourself.”

Banter complete, Melinda fixes him with a stare. He winces slightly. “Bobbi spoke with you.”

“Is there a reason you didn’t ask me yourself?”

“Well I’ve already asked you to kill me, I thought interrogating your ex-husband might be the final straw.” His flippant tone doesn’t match his face. 

Melinda looks out his window. “I don’t think it’s wise.” She sighs, and makes herself relax into the leather. “I did shoot him. A lot.”

“You calmed him. He transformed because you asked him to.”

Melinda shakes her head. “He transformed because I played him, and he knows it.” She stands. “I can’t be helpful in this way. You get all the wires fixed, and I’ll fly the bus.”

Coulson nods. “It’s all I ever asked.”

//

Outside her quarters, Daisy is lurking. Melinda makes a show of checking her watch. “This is not the same time.”

Daisy twists her hands into the hem of her shirt. “I need to talk to you. In private.”

Melinda runs her finger under the sensor in the handle and the door swings open. “Come in, then.”

Once inside, the door shut behind them, whatever courage Daisy has drummed up to get her this far appears to run out. “Maybe we can try that--that breathing thing again. Where I find my inner calm?”

“Daisy,” Melinda is careful to colour her tone only with firmness, filtering out annoyance and whatever other, more complicated emotions thinking of Andrew draws up. “what do you need to say?”

Daisy paces, biting her lip. “Just--what you said, earlier. About me not knowing, you know. Only I do know, because my mother knew--that’s not important. But I did know, when I said it, and I… still know it.”

Melinda takes a moment to process Daisy’s statement, break it down into information that makes sense. “I see.”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Daisy rushes to assure her, “and I won’t. I shouldn’t even have made that comment.”

Melinda retreats behind a familiar defensive tactic. “Information like that could make you very popular in our line of work. It’s clearance 9 just to read the file.”

Daisy is stricken, but firmer than she would have been before she left and met her mother. There’s a steeliness about her, a confidence she lacked before. “I would never.”

“I am not angry,” Melinda absolves her. “it is not a title I enjoy, but I understand it.” There’s a question on the tip of Daisy’s tongue, and Melinda cuts it off before it can form. “The team remembered nothing. Only that I had gone in, and they came out. They never tell the part of the story where I was in medical rehab for a month. Not as exciting.”

“Cavalry,” Daisy says, and Melinda is reminded again, of steel, “is rescue. It’s relief. I do think of you when I hear it, and it’s not a bad thing.”

“Same time tomorrow,” Melinda reminds her, and Daisy nods on her way out.

//

Melinda takes a deep breath and counts to seven. She hears distant waves. And Daisy, snuffling sleepily to her left. Melinda sighs, and stands. “Get up.”

Daisy scrambles to her feet. “I was trying!”

“You weren’t succeeding. Hit me.”

Daisy’s face goes from protesting to serious. She sets herself in a fighting stance, and Melinda approves of the long breath she takes, centering herself. She lashes out, a cautious, testing jab. Melinda slaps it away. “Again.” Daisy aims a kick at Melinda’s knee. Melinda sidesteps and kicks her ankle while it’s still extended, hard enough to hurt but not bruise. Daisy yelps, but course corrects immediately, allowing her knee to buckle to absorb the hit while sweeping her body around, hooking her foot.

Melinda lets the blow hit, knocking her to the ground. Braced on her palms, she springs back in a double kick, both heels hitting Daisy’s chest. Daisy hits the ground, grunting. “I was thinking,” she says conversationally, rising gracefully and keeping Melinda busy with a quick combination. Melinda parries instead of countering, and tests Daisy’s lower defenses with a series of low impact kicks. “We need to start training Joey, and Lincoln, in hand to hand.”

She catches Melinda with an elbow and Melinda moves with the blow, spinning into a sidekick that Daisy manages to block, but staggers her. “It’s a good idea,” Melinda says, dropping out of her stance and walking over to grab her water bottle. “teaching helps learn.”

“I was hoping you’d, you know.” Daisy joins her and takes a long drink. “Teach. You think I could teach?”

“You’re good,” Melinda says, “I’m not one for teaching. Ask Bobbi.”

“Yeah well I’m not asking Bobbi,” Daisy says firmly, “I’m asking you.”

“Hm,” Melinda looks at her. “Confidence looks good on you.”

Daisy grins. “Is that a yes?”

“Ask Bobbi,” Melinda repeats, “we can switch off.” And Bobbi is a better teacher, as much as it galls Melinda to come up short against another agent.

//

Bobbi raps on Melinda’s door. She holds up a sheaf of papers. “Training routine for the powder puff warriors.”

“It couldn’t wait?”

“Well,” Bobbi says, “maybe it could have.” She kisses Melinda, pressing her back and shutting the door behind them with a touch. She pulls back. “Did I read it wrong?”

Melinda considers what a bad terrible no good idea it would be. “You didn’t read it wrong,” she says, and pulls Bobbi’s shirt off. Bobbi yanks her pants off and gets started on Melinda’s, kissing her again.

“I love short girls,” she murmurs. 

Melinda, in the middle of pulling Bobbi’s sports bra off, lets the elastic snap her in the face. Bobbi lets out as close and she probably ever gets to a yelp. “Fuck you,” Melinda says. 

“That’s the idea,” Bobbi breathes, and steers them towards the bed.

//

After, Bobbi gets up while Melinda’s still catching her breath. “Did I hurt you?”

Melinda’s ribs are aching, but the pain is a pleasant edge, focusing. “No.”

Bobbi sighs, leaning on the wall to pull her pants on. “Shit. Hunter’s gonna be pissed.” She mumbles something about always thinking with her dick, which is amusing enough to make Melinda relax into the mattress. She shrugs, not bothering to sit up.

“No way it can end worse than the last two people I’ve slept with.”

“Fuck,” Bobbi mutters, dipping to press a last kiss to the corner of Melinda’s mouth “why is that hot?”

//

They rendezvous with the Avengers at a Stark facility in Minnesota. The first day Coulson, Stark, and the Captain disappear into a conference room and don’t come out for for sixteen hours. Melinda and Bobbi train for two hours on the plane, then give in to various pleas (mostly from Hunter) to go outside. FitzSimmons make a snowman, smiling cautiously at each other. Daisy throws snowball into the air with little lifts of her fingers, and Lincoln zaps them into oblivion. Joey declared that he once built an igloo and starts to replicate the process with intense tunnel vision. Melinda figures he did used to be in construction. 

Hunter and Mack are involved in what appears to be a serious deathmatch. “Make me an ax,” Mack shouts at Joey. 

“Don’t be a wanker,” Hunter hollers back, and hits Mack in the head with two snowballs in a row. 

“This is good,” Bobbi says from a foot away, shadowing Melinda as she lingers on the ramp. “care to join?”

“No,” Melinda says. Her thought are elsewhere, but she’s enjoying the bite of frosty air on her face. 

“Hm,” Bobbi says. “field conditions spar?” She points to a small flat area to their left, deep enough snow that it would be a factor.

“Okay,” Melinda says. 

//

There’s a tree that blocks the eyeline of the others, and Bobbi presses Melinda against it. Melinda looks up, expecting a kiss, but Bobbi hums instead. She cradles Melinda’s jaw and presses her fingers firmly behind Melinda’s ear, kneading with her nails. Melinda goes boneless, tipping her head back. “I thought so,” Bobbi says, insufferably smug. 

Sunk in the snow to her knees, Melinda bites at Bobbi’s collarbones through her shirt until Daisy’s shrieked laughter jolts them apart.

//

Her calves are still cold-numb the next morning when they all meet for a debriefing. Melinda sits in a chair near the center and puts both feet flat on the ground. She reclines in a facsimile of idleness and waits. Bobbi and Hunter come in at the same time, and from her periphery she can see them split, taking seats on each edge, flanking her. There’s a creak from Melinda’s immediate left, and she knows Natasha must be there, irritatingly soft-footed. 

“May,” she says, measured. She’s similarly lounged, half a muscle twitch from full battle ready. 

Melinda refuses to look her head on. “Romanoff.”

“How’s your team?” There’s a little challenge in her voice, teasing and competitive all at once.

“How’s yours?” Melinda’s tone isn’t pointed but Romanoff concedes the point, turning away and engaging Maria.

Joey and Daisy slide into seats near Melinda, turning their chairs to huddle up. “We are in a meeting with Captain America,” Joey hisses, disbelieving.

“Joey, play it cool,” Daisy replies, and catches Melinda’s eyes. “but seriously, _Ironman_.”

“Captain America,” Joey says with a tone of familiar argument. 

“Sorry Box,” Daisy says, “but Stark’s code is enough to get any girl going.”

Melinda looks up, a flash of movement catching her eye. Barton skulks along the upper railings, finally settling in a corner. He nods at her.

“We’re decided,” Coulson says, “that an Asgardian prison cell might be the safest place for,” he pauses, then deliberately chooses--”Lash to stay until we have a cure.” He looks at Melinda. “The decision was unanimous.” His way of saying he has confidence in how Andrew will be treated.

Daisy tenses, “So an inhuman lawbreaker goes to alien prison?” 

“On Asgard you would all be inhuman,” Thor muses. Lincoln, in the process of getting riled up, deflates, blinking as he works through the logic of it. Melinda imagines it’s difficult for him to get worked up on behalf of Andrew’s civil liberties, with what he did to Lincoln’s friends.

“Stark’s leaving,” Daisy murmurs, “I’ve gotta try to get a look at JARVIS.” She darts off.

“Agent May,” a voice says. Captain America wants Melinda to shake his hand. She does.

“Captain Rogers.”

“I’m not sure I trust SHIELD,” he says bluntly.

Melinda remains serene. “I’m not sure I do either.”

“Hm.” Rogers looks around the room. “When I was in boot camp, the drill sergeant thought I was useless.” Melinda stays silent. “And maybe I was. He said, ‘who here will jump on a grenade?’” He looks at her again. “While we’re fighting aliens and gods, your team’s on the ground.” You have to be good, he challenges, are you good enough? 

“Someone on my team has already jumped on a grenade,” Melinda says neutrally. 

“You don’t count, Agent, you’ve been trained. You’ve sacrificed, you’re a soldier. Your team has more civilians than operatives.”

“Not me,” Melinda says simply. She lets her eyes land on Simmons, who’s flanking Stark in a coordinated effort on Daisy and Fitz’ behalf. She’s holding Dr. Banner’s dissertation and she looks like she has questions. 

Rogers follows her eyeline, looks surprised, then smiles. “Good luck, May.” He offers her his hand again. “Barton says good things.”

Melinda accepts the olive branch. “I doubt it.” He shakes his head again, still smiling faintly, and goes, ostensibly to rescue Stark.

“Sorry,” Natasha offers, and it sounds sincere.

“Can’t be helped,” Melinda says. “I’d like to be on the exchange team.”

“Done,” Natasha says. “you up for a go? Clint and I have wagers.”

Melinda feels particularly inclined to lose Barton money. “Yes.”

//

Melinda waits until three in the morning, the witching hour of watch in the field. Andrew is sleeping on the cot in the containment cell. His face is lax but still creased, weary or maybe pained. Melinda remembers the first time they kissed, awkward and fumbling, how she spent two hours shaving her legs before their third date, nervous and anxious she’d miss a spot. It’s been so long it’s hard to recall his face younger, rounder, softer. No one has ever made her laugh like Andrew.

“Agent May?”

Jemma poker her head up from a shadow, where it’s completely unacceptable that Melinda didn’t sense her. She steps backwards into a shadow of her own, hiding her own expression. “Simmons? What are you doing here?”

“I can’t sleep,” Simmons says. There’s something on the tip of her tongue, and Melinda waits her out. “When--they wanted me to tell them how I came back, you know?” When they tortured her for information.

“You didn’t tell them anything,” Melinda reminds her, “you did well.”

“I did though,” Simmons says, the story pouring out of her, “I lied, to try and buy time, but I’m a bad liar, you know? But I talked, the whole time, I talked, it was just.” She exhales. “All lies.”

“You did well,” Melinda says simply. In the dark, it’s easier to reach out and pull Simmons against her shoulder, just like Coulson did in Bahrain. “You should pick somewhere,” she says after a short struggle for words. “I--there was a tree, where I grew up. I climbed it and looked out, and everything was--still. And quiet. You should pick a place.”

“My lab,” Simmons whispers, “Fitz.”

“Go to your lab,” Melinda tells her, “next time.” They stand in silence for a moment.

“I also came to visit,” Simmons says softly. She doesn’t seem to mind that’s Melinda’s stiff instead of comforting. “he saved me, you know? I think there’s still a little of him left in there, of Andrew.”

“Maybe,” Melinda says, “and maybe it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Simmons says indignantly, stepping forward, “if we can find a cure--” Melinda lets her arm fall back to her side.

“He made those decisions, to kill those people,” Melinda says, “I saw what he did. He ripped them apart. People just like Daisy. Like Lincoln.”

Simmons chews on her lip. “Do you honestly think he could have ever made that decision before he was exposed to the mist?”

“People change,” Melinda says simply. She remembers herself at fourteen, striking crooked finger blows onto wood to strengthen her hands, and tries to put the mental image next to the woman who limped out of Bahrain. They don’t mesh, but here she is, both of them at once. 

Andrew stirs in the cell, and Melinda steps forward, letting her pain stand naked on her face, if it might help Simmons. “Andrew isn’t your fault, and what happened to Fitz isn’t either.” She puts her hand on the glass, fingers splayed, and looks at the space where Andrew had slid her wedding ring onto her finger. She still has the ring, at her father’s house. A small diamond--student loans, couldn't afford better. “Neither was Will.”

“Not yours either,” Simmons says. Melinda pictures the nervous, action shy scientist she met her first day back with Coulson, next to the one before her, beaten and hunted and tortured and willing to jump on a grenade. Here they are, all their selves at once.

Melinda steps back, her palm print standing clear on the glass. Andrew’s chest rises and falls. Alive, and human. For now. “Goodnight, Jemma.”

Jemma’s voice is a quiet whisper, she settles back against the wall, sitting vigil, her chin propped on her knees. “Goodnight, Agent May.”

 

//

Melinda beeps her way into her quarters and finds Bobbi standing in them, arms crossed. “So my ex may be a childish asshole, but he’s got his heart in the right place. I mean--”

Melinda glares. “Why are you here?”

“-- at least mine isn’t a serial killer,” Bobbi finishes, and then braces herself. The area is too small to build up any real momentum, but Melinda gives it her best shot. Bobbi blocks it and swings, letting Melinda blow by her and go into the compartment wall. It bangs loudly, and Melinda plants her heel on it launching out horizontally in a tackle and slamming Bobbi to the floor, straddling her, pinning her wrists down. 

“Erk,” says someone, and they both snap around to see Joey through the open doorway, eating a banana. “Should I?”

Bobbi gets one hand free and jabs at Melinda’s throat. Her block frees up enough of Bobbi’s limbs to reverse them, sitting back and riding the rolls of Melinda’s hips, keeping her pinned. She grabs a cup sitting by the bed and throws it at the door sensor. It closes with a whoosh, glass tinkling onto the floor. While she distracted, Melinda hooks her leg up and wraps it around Bobbi’s torso before swinging sideways and up, pinning Bobbi facedown.

“Ow,” Bobbi says, muffled. “would you believe Coulson asked me to tell you that?” Melinda grinds her face into the thin carpet. “Jesus, okay.” Melinda releases her abruptly and stands, taking a step back. Bobbi sits up and cracks her hands. “When I’m--feeling shitty, I like to take it out on someone. And at least this way the someone would have deserved it.”

“Coulson’s worried about me,” Melinda infers.

“We’re all worried about you,” Bobbi corrects. “I barely beat Daisy to wait here.” 

“No you didn’t.” Melinda knows Daisy. Daisy, the girl who grew up without a home, who never had any little place to call her own. She would never go into anyone’s private space without permission. That’s a spy move.

Bobbi sighs. “It must be hard, for you,” she starts, then stops. Melinda stares at her, and Bobbi makes small gesture. “I thought you’d have stopped me by then.”

Melinda steps as far sideways as she can. “Out.”

Bobbi pauses by the door, and turns, arm's reach from Melinda, her hand above the panel. “But you do feel better, right?” Melinda grabs her wrist and yanks her forward into a kiss, annoyed at having to go up on her tiptoes. “Mm,” Bobbi says, and pulls back. She looks at Melinda and frowns. “You sure?” Melinda yanks her around by the wrist and pushes her. Bobbi falls on the bed and kicks her boots off. Melinda plants her knee by Bobbi’s ankle and climbs up her body, dragging her nails and sinking teeth into the soft yield of her throat. “Oh yeah,” Bobbi murmurs, arching and and setting scrabbling hands to the hem of Melinda’s bra.

//

After, Bobbi lies in the cradle of Melinda’s hips, her face tucked into Melinda’s shoulder. “Fuck,” she breathes, and rolls up. She goes into the bathroom and flicks the light on, wetting a hand towel. Melinda feels suddenly cold without her there, and turns her head to watch her, squinting in lighting that is at once too white and too dull, naked, sweat running down her spine. Melinda sits up, oddly reluctant to linger in bed by herself. Shefinds a shirt on the floor and pulls it on. Bobbi rubs the cloth briskly around her face, up her neck and the small of her back. She tosses it into the sink and comes out of the bathroom, hips swinging. “I know I feel better.”

Melinda drains half a bottle of water and tosses it to her to finish. “Leaving?”

Bobbi yanks out a sweatshirt and fumbles for her pants. “Yeah. Throw my skivvies in the wash?” Melinda nods. Bobbi grabs the bottle and chugs for a second. “See you at the exchange?”

“0800,” Melinda confirms, checking the clock. Almost five already. As Bobbi moves by her to leave Melinda catches her with a palm on her waist. “I do feel better,” she murmurs, and catches Bobbi in a kiss, no tongue, soft and sweet.

Bobbi blinks at her. “I--good. I’m glad.”

//

Melinda wakes barely an hour later, her phone dancing. She slaps the vibrations away and shoves the phone to her ear. “May.”

“Containment breach,” Coulson says.

Melinda's breath catches. “Andrew.”


	2. a warm winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2/2

Romanoff is standing at her door. “They’re engaging,” she says simply, and starts running. Melinda matches her. “Weaknesses?”

“Not that I know of,” Melinda says. “how many people are here?”

“Rogers, Hill and Coulson went to talk to the big heads,” Natasha replies. That leaves Thor, Stark, Barton, Romanoff. Melinda, Lincoln, Joey, Hunter, Bobbi, Coulson, Daisy, FitzSimmons, Mack. “Mack and Stark took twin English to the lab to lockdown.”

“Fitz is Scottish,” Melinda says, speeding up slightly. Natasha matches her easily, and shrugs an uncaring shoulder. “Your Big Guy?”

“On vacation.” They break out of the Avenger base and Natasha points them at the jet, rocking and pitching wildly as it rises high and higher. “Sparky let him out, then got hit.”

“Dead?”

“Unknown.”

Stark hits the ground next to them, his voice tinged with metal. “Need a ride, ladies?” He loops unyielding arms around them and takes off, feet and hands glowing blue. “Hey,” he says to Melinda, exaggerated, “Is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?”

“Gun,” Natasha answers for her. “Two.”

Stark gives them a little extra boost, almost to the jet. “You single?”

“Wrong tree,” Natasha half sings. She whistles a few bars of a familiar tune.

“That’s kookaburra,” Melinda tells her. “Wrong bird.” From the jet, an inhuman roar of rage echoes through the air. “My ex,” Melinda tells Stark.

“Still hot,” Stark says. He drops them on the ramp just as one of the engines sputters and dies, a large metal crate sticking out of the propulser. “Got it.” Stark flies off, and a second later the plane reorients, flattens out.

Natasha and Melinda hit the ground running, rocketing up the ramp in time to catch Lash bent over Daisy’s body, his hand glowing blue. She throws herself backward with a jerk of her hand, and Lincoln screams in challenge from the other side of the ramp, throwing a stream of melted metal and glass from one hand. The shards fly out, embedding into Lash’s neck and shoulder. He bellows with rage and charges, only to be met by six arrows in his calf. He spins, attention diverted again. It’s a good tactic, Melinda thinks. Andrew has no training, and keeping him whirling buys time and saves injuries.

“May!” Mack shouts over the intercom. “They’re creating a cure in the lab. Keep him distracted.”

“Water,” Natasha says simply. She reaches out and grabs Hunter by the collar. “Cockpit,” she orders, and he looks at Melinda. She nods, and they leave.

Melinda pitches her voice to carry. “Andrew.”

Lash looks at her and she sees nothing of Andrew. “Betrayer,” he hisses, and charges. 

“Do you remember Poughkeepsie?” Melinda’s body language is completely open, her stance steady but not fight ready. Halfway through the space between them, Lash slows, stops. “It was our first big fight. I was late coming back from a mission, and you were upset.”

In the corner of her eye, she can see Daisy help Joey up, his eyebrow bleeding. Barton flickers in motion, moving behind her, finding a better angle. “My ribs were broken, and I came to see your lecture without clearing medical.” The engines hum under their feet, the plane turning, and she closes to him when he looks like he might think about what it means. She lays a hand on his chest and his attention snaps to her like a physical presence. His skin feels cold and rubbery under her fingers. “All your anger vanished as soon as you saw my bruises. I couldn’t understand it, how you could just--forget. Forgive, on the strength of your heart.” His hand crashes on her hip, flexing with strength and crackling with energy. He’s breathing so hard it shakes her body. His face is dark and unfamiliar.

“May!” Daisy cries out. Melinda presses her body against Andrew’s. 

“I promised to call you,” Melinda continues, pitching her voice low and soothing. “the next time I was going into something bad.” She searches his eyes, looking for something familiar. They’re dark and alien and May is reminded of a video of a horse she saw once, too feral not to put down.

Outside, Melinda can see deep blue water open up underneath them. “Melinda,” Andrew says.

Jenna bursts through the door, waving a syringe. “I’ve got it!” She shouts, overcome by achievement. “I’ve--” Mack appears behind her, pulling her back. Jemma blinks. “Oh.”

Lash swallows Andrew’s face. His hand tightens on her ribcage and she cries out as something cracks. He throws her aside and heads for Simmons. Six arrows sing into his back with meaty thunks, in between the juts of his spine, but he doesn’t divert. Melinda falls to one knee, fighting for air. There’s odd pressure in the left side of her chest.

“Jemma!” Daisy cries out, and May looks up to see Jemma stumble back, Lash advancing on her. There’s a syringe sticking out of the thick muscle of his shoulder. He backhands her, sending her flying against the metal wall with an alarming clang, then staggers. The plane lurches, and an electric blue bolt of light hits him in the chest.

“Gotta go,” Stark snaps, and zooms off. The plane rights again. Lash barrell rolls down the ramp, catching Melinda by the ankle. They tumble to the edge and Daisy lunges, grabbing Melinda’s wrist. Something in her shoulder pops, and she grunts, fishtailing.

Lash roars, then… ripples. Andrew’s face rolls under Lash’s snarl, emerging from his spiked fringe. “Melinda,” he groans. His skin darkens from blue, becomes softer, more human. The scar he got from falling from a tree appears on his right pectoral muscle. Melinda remembers how it tastes against her tongue. “Melinda?”

“Andrew,” she says softly. He looks at her, tries to smile. She unloads her pistol into his chest. Blood spatters onto her cheek, hot and dripping. His eyes stay locked on hers, widening. Betrayed. His fingers, human again, go limp around her ankle. Still looking at her, his name the last word on his lips, he slips over the side, his hand outstretched to hers as he falls away.

Daisy grunts, heaving Melinda up to safety, but the torque sends her to the edge, dangling by one hand. Melinda spins on her belly, pivoting to grab Daisy by the forearm. “Stark!” She shouts. Natasha scrambles towards them on all fours, trying to get close enough to help pull Daisy up, but smoke billows from the underbelly and the plane lurches again, sending her tumbling away.

“It’s okay,” Daisy says over the sputtering engines, the rushing wind. “It’s okay, May.” _Let the girl go_.

“It will be,” Melinda says, and lets go. She hears thumping footsteps, Bobbi’s shout, and then they’re in freefall, roaring in her ears. Her stomach jumps.

“May!” Daisy’s eyes are frightened, but contained. More scared for May then herself. Melinda feels a flash of pride, how much she’s grown, the amazing person she’s become. Melinda brings her legs up and crosses them behind Daisy’s back, locking them together. She pulls Daisy’s head close to hers.

“You can do this,” she says firmly. “Make a cushion. With give, or we’ll both be in wheelchairs.”

Daisy’s face goes determined. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her hands stretch out to the ocean below. “Okay.”

“We just need enough,” Melinda continues in a murmur, “just enough to slow us before we hit the water. Melinda can’t see what Daisy’s doing, just her face as it contorts in exertion. She watches the sky fall away, the plane getting smaller and smaller in the distance. She thinks about her wedding day, how Andrew drew a smiley face in marker on her ankle for her something blue, and about Bobbi in her bed, languid grace and dimples when she smiles.

They hit the water like a clothesline hit, like a sucker punch to the chest. It knocks the air out of her lungs, and she blacks out.

//

Melinda is careful when she slips the IV from under her skin. In her younger years she used to rip them out, very dramatically, but she’s learned she prefers not have the long bruises along her veins like a heroin addict. She dresses in the dark: sweats, t-shirt. Daisy sleeps peacefully behind the curtain to her left. She slips in to check on her and finds Lincoln sitting propped up in one of the med lab’s plastic chairs. They nod at each other, his hand curled protectively over hers, and Melinda leaves before either of them feel moved to words.

She’s moving slow still, which is how she figures Jemma beats her to her quarters. “Agent May,” Jemma starts to admonish, brandishing what looks like her medical chart. Then she stops, her eyes filling with tears. Melinda had hoped for another day or two to prepare, but she’s used to not getting what she hopes for. 

“Not your fault,” she says, wooden.

“Who cares about me?” Jemma asks with a slight laugh, wiping at her eyes. “Now, your--your iron levels, your B12--”

Melinda catches her wrist, thin bones, delicate. Melinda knows which are the easiest to break, which are the most painful. She slides her fingers down to tangle with Jemma’s, pale and soft against her trigger calluses. “Jemma,” she says.

Jemma’s breath catches. Her hand goes to her mouth. “I killed him,” she half-sobs, “he must be dead, mustn’t he?” She goes into Melinda’s embrace without resistance, her forehead on Melinda’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Melinda murmurs. 

“Jemma.” Fitz steps from behind Melinda, gathering Jemma up. “C’mon.” 

Melinda pulls her back for a second. She drags her thumb, rough, the nail ripped off from the fight, below Jemma’s eye, along the dark circle, wipes away the tears. “He was very fond of you,” she says softly, and steps aside for Fitz.

She palms her door open and steps inside. Wincing from her bruises, she steps out of her sweats and beelines for her bed. 

There’s someone in it. Bobbi sits up, her tank top rucked up around her ribs. Her voice is smoky from sleep. “Aren’t you supposed to be in medical?

Melinda kicks her sweats aside. “Don’t you have your own bed?”

“Yeah.” Bobbi doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t offer explanations. She holds her hand out. Melinda presses their calluses together, puts one knee on the small bed. 

“I’m fine,” she says, stretching out on her belly.

Bobbi settles over her, a reassuring weight. “Maybe I’m not,” she says. She moves Melinda’s hair off her shoulder and presses her nose into Melinda’s neck. “You smell like a hospital,” she murmurs.

Melinda thinks about everything she’s waited too long to do. “I care about you,” she says. Her voice breaks. 

“Ssh,” Bobbi says, and then in her accented Mandarin, “All things pass.” She kisses under Melinda’s ear, and Melinda leans into her comforting warmth, the lean bulk of her body.

//

They bury an empty coffin in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania. Melinda watches the service, crouched at another grave in hat, sunglasses. His mother cries for a long time. An hour after everyone has left and she is still kneeling, frozen. Her fingers twist in the grass until they hurt.

“Travis Miller,” Coulson reads mildly. He steps next to her and gestures at the dates on the unfamiliar tombstone. “Lived a long life.”

“We eloped,” Melinda says woodenly. “His parents didn’t approve.”

“I was the best man,” Coulson remembers, “and the witness.” He pauses. “I’m the one who brought him back to SHIELD.”

Melinda stands. “I’m why he stayed.” They go to Andrew’s grave. His parents left white lilies. _Andrew Garner_ the granite reads, _A Good Man_. “He was. A good man.”

Coulson loops their fingers together. The warmth of his only hand bleeds into her glove. “He was.”

Melinda kisses the tips of two fingers and touches the top of his tombstone. They turn in one synchronised movement and starting walking. Melinda can see Lola parked outside the gates, glinting cherry red in the sun. “You never got us a present.”

“Your mother screamed at me for two hours in three languages while you honeymooned AWOL in Cabo, that’s the biggest present I’ll ever give anyone.”

//

Hunter shows up at Melinda’s door with three bottles of cheap booze and an unopened deck of cards. They play blackjack until they’re too drunk to do the math, then leave the bathroom door open and try to flick the cards into the sink from Melinda’s bed. “To the Doc,” Hunter says halfway through the third bottle. When he drinks he dribbles down his chin. “The only shrink I ever liked.”

Melinda knows she’s drunk because the liquor tastes like water on her tongue, and thinking of Andrew doesn’t make her nauseous. “In company of Christ,” she slurs in Mandarin, and slugs back another drink.

“Yeah,” Hunter mumbles, toppling forward. He rallies. “If we can’t finish these we’ll never hear the end of it.” He takes the bottle from her hand and gives her the last one. “Get started, Cavalry. I’m gonna break the seal in a major way.” He staggers into the bathroom, undoing his fly. 

On their first date Andrew ordered them wine, red. Melinda liked it, but she liked their fifth date more, on the roof of Andrew’s dorm room drunk of Pabst’s Blue Ribbon, kissing under the stars. Melinda opens the bottle and drinks until she can’t remember the way his voice faltered when he told her he loved her for the first time.

//

Melinda wakes up with a mouth like an ashtray, her tongue cracked like a desert. She’s lying on her bed, her face at the foot and her feet on her pillow. On the floor, half under the bed, Hunter groans. Someone knocks again. Melinda staggers to the door and throws it open.

“My husband!” Bobbi cries dramatically. Melinda winces, her headache ratcheting up. “In the arms of another woman?”

“For the love of God,” Hunter moans, lurching to his feet. “I’ll marry you again if you shut up.”

“That’s the opposite of incentive,” Bobbi says. She kisses Melinda, closed mouth. “Morning.”

Melinda blinks. She looks back at Hunter. “Morning.”

“Ugh,” Hunter says, but there’s no bite. He stumbles through the door. “Coffee.”

“Shower,” Bobbi counters. “You smell like the morning after at a nerdy frat.” Hunter makes his way down the hall, his hand on the wall. 

“Coffee,” he mumbles again, sniffing the air like he doesn’t know exactly where the mess is.

Something makes Melinda catch Bobbi, one hand on her waist, drawing her in. She kisses her, mint toothpaste and green tea. “You taste like cotton,” Bobbi murmurs.

“Mm,” Melinda says. She steps back. “I need a shower.” Bobbi sways towards her, dark eyed. “See you in training?”

Bobbi smirks. “Count on it.”

//

Daisy doesn’t show up for hand to hand. Joey and Lincoln trade shifty looks when Melinda glares at the spot Daisy usually occupies. Melinda leaves them practicing disarms. Across the room, Hunter and Bobbi are locked into a training fight that involves a lot of mocking looks and inside references to sexual misfires. 

Daisy is in her room, with the door open. “Come in,” she says, sitting cross legged on her bed. Melinda steps in, hesitant, and the door closes behind her. “I figured it out,” Daisy says.

“Oh?”

“My place. It’s here, playing… stupid games with Fitz and hearing Mack and Hunter argue about beer, talking about boys with Simmons, annoying Coulson, watching you and Bobbi do… whatever is you guys are doing.”

“Classified.”

“Ha ha.” Daisy stands and nudges Melinda on the shoulder. “I know about finding homes. And how to keep one that fits. But I also know about grieving.” There are three candles on her dresser, two faintly melted. “My mom,” she touches one, red and slender, “my dad,” she touches the other, a deep blue, “there are others, but I keep these out.” She hands Melinda a lighter.

“I lost something,” Melinda murmurs, easier to echo in the dark, “when I lost him.”

“Nothing is lost forever,” Daisy says softly. Melinda lights the third candle, pale yellow, and runs her fingertips through the flame, quick enough to just barely feel the heat. Daisy’s hand touches her elbow, hesitant, and then firmly, comforting. “You just have to go to the right place to find it again.”

//

Melinda finds Coulson in his office. He’s looking at that picture of Rosalind. “I’m glad,” he says softly, “more than anything else, that we knew enough to trust her at the end.”

Melinda feels off-footed. She hadn’t gotten to know Rosalind well enough to trust her, or like her, other than that Coulson did, which is usually good enough anyway. She supposes she should say something about being glad they had Maui, her and Andrew, but the words are ash in her mouth. His name is a splinter in her throat. She shows Coulson her hand, a gift from her and Daisy. _Ocean Breeze_ , the candle says. His lips quirk understandingly, more sad than mirthful. “I see.”

She says nothing, and walks over to behind his desk. She grasps his roller chair back in both hands and wheels him aside. She pulls out the bottom drawer and moves a few folders out of the way, revealing a high end bottle of rum. “Some things don’t change.”

“Why ruin a good run,” Coulson agrees, and rises to grab a few glasses off a tray. He clunks them on the table and Melinda pours a few fingers of deep amber rum into each. “to what are we toasting?”

“To whom,” Melinda corrects, putting the rum away. She stands at the window and after a moment, Coulson joins her.

“To Andrew,” he says.

Melinda clinks her glass against his. “To Rosalind.” 

They drink. Melinda watches the glitter of the wings. “Bobbi and I.” Coulson hums, disapproving. “You knew it was a possible outcome.”

Coulson grunts. They drink again. “Daisy thinks you’re suffering emotional post traumatic stress.”

“Simmons is mad you left your new, expensive, high-tech hand behind the monolith portal.”

Coulson shrugs. “It was symbolic.”

//

Daisy and Bobbi are running footwork patterns, batons clinking in broad sweeps and short and strikes as they pivot. “Good,” Bobbi praises, and then, “faster when you switch from 3 to 4.” They don’t stop when Melinda comes in, and Daisy grins.

“Practicing torture to pass on to Joey and Linc.”

Melinda stretches and moves into a kata stance, taking a bo staff off the wall. She misses the clean taste of the berserker staff, crisp and focusing with the steady burn of rage glowing underneath. She moves through the motions, easing into her headspace. 

An hour later and Daisy leaves, rubbing her face vigorously with a towel. Bobbi drains a water bottle and props herself up on a wall, watching Melinda move with deliberate calm. “Boring,” Bobbi challenges, and takes another staff.

//

Bobbi presses Melinda against the wall of her quarters, groping playfully, uncoordinated. Her fingers are gentle when she traces Melinda’s bruises. “I won’t pretend,” she whispers, panting as she bites at Melinda’s throat, “to be your confidant.” Melinda dips her fingers under Bobbi’s waistband, feeling her belly flex as she moans. “Are you going to sneak out after?”

Melinda pauses, and thinks about choices. “Walk of shame’s not my style,” she says.

Bobbi’s eyes crinkle, her smile wide enough to shine the moon. Melinda kisses one of her dimples, than the other. “Cuddle time after?”

“If you’re impressive enough,” Melinda says, and lets Bobbi lift her up against the wall, grinding against Bobbi’s thigh.

//

After, they lie pressed all up against each other in the small bunk, sweat cooling on their skin. Melinda stretches, arching her back and pointing her toes. Bobbi groans. “No, I’m too tired for another go.”

Melinda holds the stretch. “Who says it’s for you? I’ve had a hard day.” She relaxes, going boneless into the thin mattress, then swings her legs off the bed.

Bobbi gropes uncoordinated after her, “Hey! I was promised cuddle time.”

Melinda grabs a shirt off the floor. “You were not.” She yanks it on, shivering at cloth over sensitive skin, her bruises and Bobbi’s teethmarks.

Bobbi props her head on her hand, unabashedly naked, curls cascading over her shoulders. “You a love ‘em and leave ‘em type after all?”

Melinda snorts. “I’m cold.” She turns around in time to see Bobbi’s eyes go dark, dilate. She looks down. She’d grabbed Bobbi’s shirt by mistake, and it hangs a little loose on her. “Still upset I put on clothes?”

“No,” Bobbi says, reaching out and catching Melinda by the hem. “C’mere and leave it on.”

Melinda arches an eyebrow. “I’m tired,” She mimics, and lets Bobbi pull her to the bed and roll her over. Bobbi settles between her legs and runs a hand up Melinda’s left calf. Melinda arches again, reaching a hand up to press against the cool wall.

Bobbi bites at her inner thigh, nudging the shirt up. “Agent’s May’s got jokes. Take a nap old timer, I’m good here.” She licks at the bite, grooving the indents with her tongue, and Melinda shivers. She exhales, letting the ghost of his touch on her fade, and feels Bobbi smiling against her skin.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm delighted to receive comments and criticism. :)


End file.
